I Don't Dance
by Minor Ramblings
Summary: JeanLogan Beware, pointless-but-fun Redship lurks here! Jean needs a date for a formal ball. Logan apparently has no choice in the matter. Dance lessons ensue.


Title: "I Don't Dance"  
Author: Minor Ramblings  
Pairing: L/J   
Rating: PG, mild PG-13 if you're fussy. Allusions to 'doing it', yep.   
'Verse: Post-X2 by a year or so. (C'mon, we all know Jean's not dead. And if Famke and Hugh continue to have all the on-screen chemistry...)  
Summary: Jean needs a date for a formal ball. Logan doesn't have a choice in the matter. Pointless fluff!

"I don't dance, Red."

"Sure you do. You're what, one hundred, two hundred years old? Men danced, back then."

"I didn't."

"You don't remember if you did or not!"

"I didn't dance. And I didn't wear those wussy tights like in that Kate & Leopold movie you an' Storm are always watchin' neither."

"Period costume, Logan. Not 'wussy tights'."

"Wussy tights. An' I still don't dance."

"Yes you will."

"Yeah?"

"Uh-huh. I've got a medical awards dinner to go to, and there's a ball afterwards. The Professor _can't_ dance, and after what happened, Scott _won't_ dance with me, and I still need a date. Ergo, you."

"_Ergo_," he mimics. "Take the German."

"Kurt. And he's taking the kids out to an indoor climbing gym. Back to you."

"Still not dancing. Don't know how, and y'ain't gonna be able to teach me well enough before tonight. Go to the dinner, cut out before the ball, home again, and I'll even rent ya a movie."

"Are you challenging Doctor Professor Grey's ability to teach, Professor Logan?"

"Me. A professor. Right, Jeannie. And what'll you do if I am?"

"Bobby Drake's parents seem to think so... and if you're making this a challenge, mister..."

"All right... let's say I am."

A feminine laugh, laced with mishief. Slim hands find sturdy hips, and a touch of thought turns the CD player to a slow Latin beat. "Celia Cruz. Grand old lady of this kind of music."

"Better'n that Enrique kid anyways," he admits grudgingly. Large hands find hers and lift them to his shoulders, before sliding down her body to rest on the swell of her hips, flashing an asshole grin as she shivers at their passing. 

"Now, the first thing we're going to learn will be the rhumba." she directs, clearing her throat and trying to sound professional and not just the slightest touch breathless as his hands on her hips stroke lightly, shifting to the small of her back and to the hips again, occasionally teasing with a pass across her rump in time to the music. 

"Rhumba... sounds like something t'serve with strawberries in a pie."

"Nooo... that's rhubarb." she corrects, snorting at the corny joke but taking the bait anyways as she guides them both to a clear spot on the hardwood floor of her room, the quick beats rattling against the too-bare walls. "Rhumba is just four steps. Step forward, step back, with the same foot, step back, step forward, with the other foot. Rinse and repeat."

One. Two. Three. Four. Brisk near-marching steps as he follows orders. It looks nothing like dancing. "See?" A hint of teasing triumph. "I can't dance."

"Bullshit. If you can spend two hours practicing martial arts katas, you can dance. Latin dancing is all in the hips." One, two. Three, four. Slight hips brush sturdy ones, taunting him herself as she draws away. 

"Hips, eh?" A smirk. "I can do that." 

A muffled meeping as she's pulled close, one broad hand against the small of her back, and the other still caressing her side. In body contact as they are, heat bleeding through a loose summer dress and a pair of battered jeans, she's acutely aware of his sudden stillness as they press against each other, of the quickening of her pulse as she looks up into his dark eyes.

And then they move. A quick study? A remembered thought? Or is Logan just a particularly good liar? A moot point, as the Wolverine masters the simple rhythm of the rhumba, and whirls the Phoenix across the floor, their steps slowly slipping into synch.

Dancing, some say, is a preview of further intimacy, the measure of a lover found in their movements on the floor. Are they generous? Do they lead, follow, or somehow mingle both? Confidence, grace, control, all are signs, and Jean finds herself reading them. Reading, wondering, and slowly lifting her eyes again, only to catch his looking right back down at her.

The music zig-zags onwards, but the two dancers slow and then stop, the room seeming to whirl away around them, leaving a small white realm with the two of them and the music alone. Green eyes meet a liquid hazel, one hand lifts to trace her jaw. Which of them moves first is unknown. Lips meet and part and meet again, breath shared between them as her body grows racked by trembling, an echo of it felt from his own. It's with mutual accord that they drift towards the soft embrace of her bed, the CD ending unheeded in a whirr of electronics as the rhumba's sexual preview proves a prelude instead.

Several hours later, running late for her medical conference and not caring in the least, a contented Jean nestles against Logan's bare chest, langorous fingers playing with the nest of hair there. They lie with bodies still tangled and the rumpled sheets tented about them as she smiles in utter contentment and whispers "Still don't dance?"

There's a rumbled laugh from the man beside her, and she knows if she looks up she'll see a smile in those eyes, just for her. "Few more lessons like this one, Red, an' I might just change my mind."


End file.
